Little Moments
by Nyte Quill
Summary: Part 1- Duncan's POV after the shootout in the kitchen. Part 2- Ellen's thoughts during the gun lesson. Part 3- alternate bath scene. Part 4- the kids are not alright. Part 5 & 6- the kiss. Part 7- the morning after... Contains spoilers. Will continue if I keep getting flashes of inspiration... and reviews. [hint hint] Enjoy!
1. Slam

The instant before the situation explodes, Duncan springs into action. He feels the body beneath him, the jolt as they hit the floor. He's shielding her. In that moment, he's not thinking like a hostage taker, not doing the rational thing for the greater good, not merely preserving an asset. He's reacting like a father, protecting her and trying to keep her out of harm's way.

His first thought as they lie there, catching their breath, is whether dashing her to the floor like that might have hurt the baby. Maybe he should have drawn her to him and gone down first, cushioning her landing instead of covering her back; however, protection protocol kicked in in the heat of the moment, so he dove first and thought second. But he doesn't want to hurt the baby or her or the good doctor or anyone who hasn't hurt him first. Most people not actively trying to take down his country really have no reason to fear. (Although he has this lingering itch to beat Brian senseless which he tries his best to ignore.)

A quick unconscious assessment of the area has him counting breath patterns: a rapid hyperventilation through flared nostrils coinciding with Morgan's rise and fall beneath him, a shallow exhalation ffrom Sandrine's last known position near the landing (probably collecting herself after the shootout), the thrum of blood in his ear as he draws his own steadying oxygen. And that's it; just the three. Duncan lets his head fall for a moment with a sigh. He'll have a lot to deal with in a second: body disposal, a wounded colleague, a hormonal teen, crying probably, and more of those terrible looks he's really starting to hate getting from Ellen.

But he takes a moment and says a silent prayer for the baby, that it's… all right. That Sandrine was wearing a vest. That he can comfort Morgan, if she needs it. If she'll let him. And that… well, that they all just get out of this thing alive.

**A/N: whipped off after tonight's episode, b.c hopefully someone has a Good Reason for what's going on.**

**Whether you liked or not, please R&R. Thanks.**


	2. The Safety Is Off

The grass is damp and slightly slippery beneath her shoes as he shoves her into the yard. The air is cool and crisp, the type of night she normally loves, when you can almost taste the shifts in the atmosphere, the seasonal kaleidoscope. Now the chill twilight is not the only thing making her shiver. Normally she'd be having a barbeque grill bonfire with the kids, toasting marshmallows and making family memories (a commodity harder and harder to come by lately.) Tonight the perfume of damp and slightly rotted leaves is cloying, almost sweet, and it makes her gag beneath her sobbing pleas.

The man forcing the heavy black metal of the pistol into her hand is terrifying, so much more than his part in this situation; just the way he is scares the hell out of her far more than the knowledge of what he is.

The suppressor at the end of the barrel is smooth, almost sexualized, like death and violence are supposed to be linked to arousal or something. It's unnerving to her, and as she raises the gun and takes shaky aim on the oak tree a few yards away, she's still surprised how loud the sound is. How does no one hear this? All this time, have none of her neighbors heard the shots and the screams and the jackhammering of her heart against her ribs?

He commands her to shoot again, and between a total lack of a clue as to what she's doing (morally, situationally, existentially) and a permeating fear that rattles her nerves like ice in a cocktail shaker, she misses the mark once more.

When people don't know what they're doing, someone gets hurt. If you come after someone with a gun and don't know how to use it, someone could end up wounded or dead, and that someone could be you. She needs to understand this. He is impressing this on her for her sake as well as his. The rational part of her understands this; the irrational part of her wants to take the gun and try her luck on pitting the ace of hearts at 16 inches... or self-inflicted lobotomy by bullet. She knows she won't do either.

She's crying, apologetic and scared, and ready to please go back in the house now- but his hand latches onto her wrist again as she moves towards the deck and he won't let go. A minor exertion of controlled pressure and momentum brings her flush against his chest. Her senses are assaulted by him: rigidly controlled breaths on her cheek, the spicy scent of sweat and cologne, hard muscle and rough denim and lingering pressure over her quickening pulse points, the icy blue of his irises playing ring around the black hole with his dilated pupils… and the unexpected press of metal into her palm and warm fingers closing her numb ones over the grooved grip of the handle.

_What's happening?_ Slowly she finds herself turned in his arms, his chest flush against her back, one hand hovering about her solar plexus, the other raising her arm and steadying the gun she holds. A brief brush of stubble rasps her jawline as he nudges closer, easing a few wayward strands out of his way before directing her to set her sights on the tree. Instructions ooze into her ear in a low sinuous tone, like a serpent wending its way into her brain. **_Watch your posture… control your breathing… do your best to remain calm… and-_**

"Always take a moment before you fire. Make absolutely sure." Her gaze shifts peripherally for a moment before swinging back to the target, and she has to swallow the little catch in her throat to let her question out. "S-sure of what?"

He's looking at her; she can feel it. The rumble of his speech vibrates through his chest and sends shivers of sensation down her spine. "That you want to hit what you're aiming at. That when you hit it, it will be a conscious and deliberate choice. That you can and absolutely mean to kill what you have in your sights." The moment stretches on, nearly as visible as the wisps of white that hang in the air between them.

"Now take a breath… and hold it." Their chests expand in tandem, filling their lungs with tension and darkness and unspoken words… and an inexplicable calm. The fingers on her free hand clutch at the hand still resting low on her abdomen. **_Count to three. Release your breath and squeeze- don't pull- the trigger._**

The resultant shot sends a bullet into the wizened trunk, the grip into her palm with a slight sting, and the blood whooshing into her ears. He eases the gun from her bruised hand and presses his chin on top of her shoulder. "That was good. Quite good for your first lesson, but enough for tonight. I think you should go back in and get some sleep." He slips his lips against her temple, slides off her shoulder and gives her a gentle push in the middle of her back. Bereft of his support, her feet carry her towards the house with an awkward jerkiness, like a marionette with damaged strings. She halts on the deck when she hears his voice cut through the night.

"Ellen?" Her head swivels over her shoulder to regard him, a shadowy suggestion silhouetted in the dim light. "If we continue this, and you _ever_ attempt to use me for target practice…" He steps fully into the wobbly light streaming from inside, bursting into clear stark relief against the black beyond and pinning her with a loaded look. "I'll try my hand at heart surgery… on your husband. Do we understand each other?"

She gives a short silent nod and flees back to the house. Duncan watches her go with a wholly unreadable expression, muttering into the void. "Even if we do both deserve it, for all the crap we're putting you through." With that, he squares his shoulders and trudges back into the house to regroup.

**A/N: I'm looking forward to what I get from tomorrow night's ep, but this plot bunny was demanding I chase it.**

**Hope you like it; you know the drill.**


	3. Slice, Ice, Baby

Duncan's eyes may be on her face, but his finger is on the trigger, itching to pull back and just end this jabbering idiot's presence in his life. A honest-to-God life or death situation and the guy can't shut up?

She warns him it's going to hurt, but he's okay with pain; he's tough, a hardened FBI- _**Guhh!**_ The blade moving over his skin feels like a lick of fire. She's going after his heart again, literally this time. Silly girl; doesn't she know it's already hers?

He's having a hard time moving the more the poison tries to work its way around. He's being supported by both of them, one under each arm, and if he had the energy, he'd punch Brian over the bannister to hold Ellen close. But he needs to get upstairs. Ellen is trying to save him, and he really wants to let her try.

One hand holding the drawer from the ice maker, Brian props him up as Ellen cranks on the cold tap, sending water splashing into the guest bath. A few minutes tick by as it fills, and they all have time to reflect on the fact that it would've been this full by the time they got up here if she could've trusted Brian not to kill him while she ran upstairs. She'd made it a grand total of 3 steps when she'd seen the look in Brian's eye and just said they could all go together.

The water is a little over halfway when he zombie walks to the edge, half falling, half diving into the tub. Her hand is on the back of his neck holding his head steady as ice cubes hail into the water. He's having trouble breathing and his eyes won't focus properly, but he's aware of her calm voice pleading: "Stay with me, Duncan. Stay with me." Her free hand presses ice cubes into his chest and neck, checks his pulse, grips his shoulder as she orders Brian downstairs for more ice. "As much as you can carry. And hurry!"

Her hands never leave him but her head turns towards the door, tracking Brian's progress. Uneven footsteps still make good time down the stairs, and when noise can be heard in the kitchen, Ellen swings back to the man in the water.

"Duncan?" His eyes are darting about, and the only breathing he can manage are short gasping pants. Some stubborn part of his brain registers her hands on his face, turning it to look in her direction. "Duncan?" Her voice is more insistent this time, and she gives him a little shake. The water... the water... the water is less than three minutes from being proud of the tub's edge. His eyes flick down to the rising level, and Ellen follows, stretching to the side to turn the spout off before returning to him.

"Stay with me, baby. Just stay with me." His eyes snap to her face, but she's engaged in checking his pulse and temperature with her fingers again. Brian is rattling down the hallway, not that Duncan could say anything right now anyway. A few bucketfuls of ice rain down on him, splashing Ellen and sending water out of the tub, but no one notices.

He wonders if she knows she said it. He wonders if she knows how much he liked hearing it. He wonders... away into the darkness.

**Author's Note: Just because. I was wondering, "what if...?" and this is I got. Hope you like it. A chapter from "Loose Ends" is on its way. **

**You know what to do.**


	4. See and Say

The air in the bedroom is rife with tension. Morgan and Jake are pestering Brian about his sudden uncooperative stance with the team, why he won't do anything he can to help them. Because helping the team is helping themselves, and for some reason, their father hasn't quite figured that out yet. So they'll need to make him.

Morgan has read plenty of research about twins: the way they could communicate without talking, the idioglossia of thought and silent speech. Though she and her brother were separated by time, gender and a grade in school, they had always been close. Even now, their bizarre telepathy does not fail, as she turns away from their jabbering father to regard her brother over her shoulder. A semaphore composed entirely of facial tweaks and telegraphing eyebrows conveys their plan and assessments to one another as clearly as if spoken aloud. Knowing Brian would notice the expression on his son, Morgan allows a small smile to punctuate the communique before they turn their attention forward once more.

Jake's smile when Brian's gaze hits his is practically believable, even touching briefly in his eyes for that added spark of sincerity. The fact that his fingers are gripping his biceps so hard they'll bruise is, like so many other things that have gone on lately, nothing his dad needs to know about.

Morgan is a little more subtle. She knows a large bright grin will ring false, even as dim as her dad has been lately. Any deep examination of the look in her eyes would probably make him nervous, like when you watch a crocodile in the zoo and realize it's staring straight at you with those odd dragon-like orbs. But Brian has no reason to doubt his daughter right now. She lets the smile pull up one corner of her mouth; any more than that and her face would probably crack from the strain, but it's enough for now. Her fingers unclench from the fist she's hiding in the full bell sleeve of her sweater, wincing as air hits the half-moon divots from her nails. And she lays her hand on the one her father has just below her elbow, a soft touch to convey connection and let him look her in the eye. She can't bring herself to speak right now, but the "sure, Daddy. Whatever you say" is almost audible in her expression.

**A/N: there's more to come (how could I ****_fail_** **to make use of the kind offering the PTB gave us fangirls this week?), but I wanted to branch into the kids for a minute, and this scene really grabbed my attention.**

**I am going back to Ellen Duncan and Brian for a bit, so there will be new chapters (yep, plural) by Monday.**

**Hope you like it. Even if you didn't, please leave a review and let me know.**


	5. Sense and Sensuality

The long day is finally over. Ellen is standing in the kitchen when her freshly released family joins her. She holds Jake gently, a steadying hand on his shoulder and the other cradling his face as she gives him a cursory once over. She doesn't expect to see anything amiss (Duncan would never allow it, and they've been under lock and key all day) but she can't suppress that little doctor mom-sense that causes her to check anyway. Satisfied with her assessment, his hair is given an affectionate ruffle and they share a smile before she moves on to Morgan… or rather, Morgan moves onto her. Her already hormonal teen is additionally emotional right now- although she isn't crying and doesn't appear to be scared or hurt. In fact, in the brief look that passes between them, Ellen swears she can spot calm maturity and even a little conspiratorial understanding in her daughter. She gives an imperceptible nod and Morgan fractionally increases the curve of her mouth, indicating they'll talk more later when they're alone.

Finally, Brian approaches. She doesn't shy away, not exactly; she just… presents a "proceed with caution" from her body language. When he reaches for her anyway, she vocalizes that they can discuss it later (even if she has no intention of keeping that appointment).

She turns and heads back up the stairs, leaving her family behind. It is not a conscious choice (no matter what, she would never abandon her children) but she can't stop her momentum as it carries her up once more. A quick glance over her shoulder is an involuntary reflex, and certainly not a check that no one is following her.

Her footfalls are absorbed by the Berber carpeting, and she enters the command center stealthily, easing the door shut behind her. He's sitting, staring but not seeing anything playing out on the monitors, lost in thought. She's not sure her presence has registered until he lets out a quiet, "I can't believe you did it." and turns to regard her. "No, _we_ did it," she demurs.

"You came through for me, Ellen." In one fluid movement, he's on his feet, rising to her level without encroaching into her sphere. "Without you... I don't know what would have happened today." His voice is full of emotion, expression easy to read as a lab printout. His guard is wholly down at this moment; he's allowing it to be down with her, because of her.

She's decided, she's finally ready to do what he wants, and it's time he knew the decision she's reached. Starting as a tiny shockwave hits him, he approaches slowly, cautiously, as though afraid sudden movement will make her bolt. The clarification of her meaning only enhances the unmoored feeling. His throat works for a minute around the right words as conflicting messages play across his face. Finally, he manages a whispered "thank you" and bridges the gap between them.

His arms are around her before she has time to process what's going on, and suddenly her senses are totally inundated. Nerves and skin feel the bands of steel wrapped around the back of her ribs and evaluate the brick wall torso she's currently pressed against. Soft breath sounds cause warm exhalations to twine around the shell of her ear as she suppresses a shiver. Pinpricks of his ever-present stubble are working their way through the strands of hair across her face, the slight rasp of whiskers on her cheek feeling like a sandpaper caress. A flash of sense memory as she remembers the shooting lesson in the garden, the butterflies in her stomach producing gale force winds with their renewed fluttering.

Her eyes want to close and let the fantasy take over, but Ellen flickers between the crown molding along the ceiling and her fingers as they flex and clench behind his back, unsure if she can touch him. And she's trying so hard to ignore it but the scent of Duncan blended with expensive leather (merely distracting from an arm's length away) is now overwhelming, her nose squooshed against his shoulder as she struggles to not inhale.

Her hands have finally decided they want to touch, to hold as they rest of her is being held, and without pressing him closer she places soft fists on the rigid planes below his shoulder blades. That battle lost, she lets her eyelids fall and consigns herself to a single sniff- and is suddenly intoxicated, drunk on Duncan and losing her grip on control. A moan born of numerous sensations and sensibilities is fighting its way up from her core, but she manages to bite her lip as it tries to escape and lets out a sigh instead. A barely audible, wistful, lustful sigh.

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but she knows he hears it because in that instant his body becomes even more tense. And beyond that, that he heard every component that small sound contains. The longing, the confusion, the desire, the disgust (with him, with herself, with the situation, with the man downstairs, with the Man Upstairs… ). She wants blood, she wants revenge, she wants to help, she wants her life back- and she wants him. It's that simple, wrong though it may be, and…

And she doesn't have time to dwell on it, because the stubble at his jaw has captured a few strands of her hair as he pulls back to look at her. And the hard planar lines of his body have magnetized themselves to the softer angles of her own. The fingers of one hand are cuffed around her bicep- though which of them he's attempting to restrain she is not sure- and the other has come up to cradle her cheek. She has a moment to reflect that the posture is a more possessive iteration of her touch to Jake earlier in the evening, before his head dips down and their lips meet and she loses the ability to think anymore.

**A/N: sorry about the delay. I've been busy and this episode was like AM/PM: too much good stuff. But I had to write the kiss, and there will be a bit from Duncan's POV up next.**

**Hope you're liking this, but whether you are or not, please leave a review. Thanks.**


	6. Shame

With his mouth otherwise occupied Duncan inhales deeply through his nose, catching the scent of her blended with faint arousal. He's holding onto her, craving touch and contact and stability, somehow managing not to stifle and squeeze and scare her away. He feels the smooth skin of her cheek beneath the pad of his thumb and his other fingertips are grazing through silky strands of cornsilk blonde. A faint trace of coffee lingers on her tongue, and the sticky texture of her lipstick is so different from… _Wait._ _What are they doing? What is _**he**_ doing?_

They break apart as he draws a deep breath of the air between them. The sudden absence of pressure against their lips instills a sense of loss in them. In a flash they both recall their partners. Her thoughts go to Brian, and to Nina, the woman for whom Duncan is willing to rip apart the world. His thoughts only go to Nina, and the shame he feels at his moment of weak disloyalty; as far as he's concerned, Brian is not worth the consideration of anyone in this room.

There is a brief stretch of disorienting indecision. She feels like throwing herself into bed, and taking him with her. He wants to curl into a ball on the floor. She longs for a hot and cold shower, creating sensory overload and scrubbing off the residue of the world until there is nothing left, until she can feel no more. He feels like throwing his head back and howling like a wounded animal stripped of its mate (although which mate he's lost, he couldn't say.) A CAT scan for each of them would probably not go amiss either.

What does this mean? What can it mean? There is no hope beyond right now. No matter what, too much has happened, been said and done to go back, to have a chance. When this is over, whatever is left of them will go their own separate ways, and he will put her in one of the many compartments a man in his line of work builds over the years to keep some measure of sanity intact, only taking her out once in a while and playing a game of _What Might Have Been…_ and wondering if wherever she is, if she might be doing the same.

**A/N: So very sorry about the delay. Family holiday obligations and last minute stuff meant no time online (and no internet access anyway.)**

**But here it is. Duncan's point of view, hopping onboard Ellen's train of thought. Happy Chrisma-hanu-kwanz-akah. **

**Hope you liked it. Even if you don't... well you know the drill.**


	7. Space Between

She's standing in the kitchen. He can't help but notice the dichotomy in their clothing. She's in white, he's in black, their roles as clearly defined as in any old Western. Whatever his reasons, however pure his motives, he's still the bad guy in this; he just hopes that doesn't make him a bad guy.

The smell of coffee wafts up as she gives the French press a final pump before she abandons the task and turns to face him.

"Uh... about last night," she begins tentatively, and every muscle in his body clenches like a boxer's fist. Dear Lord not the relationship talk. Spare him this. But he braces for impact and replies with a neutrally resigned, "Right." He doesn't trust himself to say anything more until he hears what she has to say first.

"I mean, everything's been so confusing and... heightened." He nods as though he knows what she means; in a way he sort of does, but this conversation is too fraught with landmines to respond with any degree of certainty.

"I know what I'm supposed to feel," she tries again and all he can think is _Well that makes __one__ of us. _"I'm supposed to hate you." _Oh. Please don't. _"But uh, I don't," she continues, clearing her throat mid-sentence as though the words are threatening to stick. He knows the feeling, as so many replies are competing to break through he feels like he's choking. He's still mixed up about the kiss, and what it means for him, for her, for them (not that there can really be a "them"), for her family, for the assignment, for Nina... jeez, the list goes on and on for something that only physically involved 2 people.

At his heart, he's truly glad she doesn't hate him, but he still feels despicable. His eyes slide closed as he fights a wince and his head drops a touch in shame as he chooses his next words with quick care. _I'm an ass and you _should_ hate me, _while a very accurate statement, is not the best option. Neither is grabbing her hand and running to the nearest airport, tempting though _that_ idea is.

Braving to meet her eye, he settles on a simple truth- that he's glad to hear that. It should be final-sounding enough to move off the topic and back on to a more important- _what is she doing? _She's just drawn a breath like a skydiver readying to jump and stepped into the gap he'd been careful to leave between them. _She... can't do that._ The urge to grab her arms and drag her the remaining inches to his lips has him digging his fingers into the countertop with renewed force. The quick inhalation he draws though his nose only floods him with the scent of her conditioner and the faint vanilla of her freshly laundered clothes. _Oh God._

"Ellen we can't. We need to focus right now on what really matters: saving our families." Where the voice or the words it was speaking had come from, Duncan can't say, but he **is** grateful for whatever reasonable entity decided to use him as a meat puppet. She shifts back a few inches with muted agreement, a slightly stunned expression on her face.

Newly mindful of the cameras and all they can capture, he opts only to lay his hand upon hers where it rests on the granite butcher block. "We're doing the right thing." He gives a reassuring squeeze before he lets her go and walks upstairs, forcing himself to not look back.

**A/N: alright. Minor delay, but new chapter up.**

**While I'm sure I'll have plenty of inspiration thanks to the double header finale from tonight, currently my next chapter is Brian's POV. Since he hasn't been in so far (except for peripherally), I'll let you guys decide if you want a chapter from him. I'll gladly wait if you can to see what else I can come up with.**

**Read, please review, and as always, enjoy.**


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